


Five Times that Harry met Molly

by achray



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, Femslash February, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 19:24:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achray/pseuds/achray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly meets Harry on the day of Sherlock's jump, and things develop from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times that Harry met Molly

**Author's Note:**

> I thought it would be a good idea to write some femslash in February. Unfortunately I also thought it would be a good idea to write a major grant proposal for work in February. Thus it is well into March and I've only written two-fifths of this (I cheated by posting the first part on Tumblr on the last day of February). But I'm enjoying thinking about a different relationship and I hope to finish this soon. Will be relatively light and fluffy, eventually explicit but not in these sections.

1.

The first time Molly met Harry Watson, she was shouting at the receptionist in the hospital. Or not quite shouting, to be fair, but at least being louder and fiercer than Molly would ever have been in a hospital waiting room, full of other people avidly listening in.

“What do you mean, my brother _left_? You told me he had concussion and that he ‘wasn’t making much sense’! I’ve been here _two hours_ waiting to see him and now you’re telling me you let him walk out of here on his own? What the – ”

The receptionist was trying to say something quelling. Molly stepped forward.

“Um, excuse me, is this about John? John Watson? I was looking for him too.”

The woman at the desk wheeled round to look at her, and Molly took a half-step back.

“See?” she said, turning back to the receptionist but gesturing towards Molly. “All his friends have been waiting to see him, and you haven’t even bothered – “

“Oh, I’m not quite his friend,” Molly said or tried to say, interrupting a fresh tirade, “it’s just that I wanted to check that he was – that he was – ”

Suddenly she was back in the cold morgue, with Sherlock gripping her by the arms, hard, she could still feel it, and saying, more shaken than she’d seen him through all of this,  “I have to go. Right now. Make sure John’s not hurt, will you? Please?”

She was going to cry, the rest of the sentence was stuck in her throat, and her legs felt weak, exhaustion was shaking through her.

“Oh, sod it,” said the woman, and turned towards Molly decisively. Something about her movement, rather than her face or words, clicked, as Molly brought her into proper focus.

“Oh,” she said, swallowing and blinking. “You must be Harry.” Now she could see the resemblance: Harry had the same build as John, stocky, compact, and the same eyes, though her features were finer and her graying hair was chin-length and curly.

Harry frowned at her. “He’s pissed off back to Baker St, apparently.” She looked Molly up and down. “Are you…?”

“Oh, I’m no-one,” said Molly hastily. “I mean, I work here. Not here exactly, more – that is, I’m a, a friend of Sherlock’s. Was, I mean, was a friend. I just wanted to check that John was OK.”

“No idea,” said Harry. She sighed and ran a hand through her curls. “Harry Watson,” she said, holding out the other hand.

“Molly. Molly Hooper.”

“Are you OK? I mean, if Sherlock was your friend. You look a bit – upset.”

“I’ll be fine,” said Molly. “I’m a bit – but really it’s OK.” She tried a wavering smile, but it obviously came out wrong, because Harry was now looking at her with obvious concern.

“Look, I’m going to get out of here and get a coffee and then go round and check on John,” she said. “Not that he’ll thank me for it. Do you want to come?”

Molly wanted to go back to her flat, have a hot bath and a large glass of wine, cry, and then sleep for days. But she’d made a promise, even if no-one would ever know if she’d kept it. And the thought of seeing John with Harry there too, as a shield, so that she wouldn’t have to look John in the face on her own with the knowledge of what she’d just done to – for – him, brought a wash of relief with it.

“Are you sure?” she said. “I mean, you’re his sister, and I – "

“He’ll probably be more pleased to see you than me,” said Harry. “There’s a Costa across the street if we take the back exit, let’s go there.”

“Yes,” said Molly, and she followed her out gratefully. 

 

2.

Molly was lying on her sofa half-watching the final moments of the six o’clock news, thinking about how much energy it would take to get up and make a proper meal out of the sad vegetables in her salad drawer, and whether this sounded more or less exhausting than going out, walking five minutes to the Tesco Metro and buying something she could microwave, when her phone chimed. She picked it up.

“Hi, this is Harry. Wondered if we could meet for a chat about John? H x”

Molly pulled herself up a bit. She hadn’t seen John in over three weeks, but she’d taken to calling Greg every now and then about how John was doing, and he’d seen him last weekend.

“Everything OK? M x” she sent.

“Saw him yesterday, not great. H x”

“No worries if not convenient. H x”

“Happy to meet.” Molly typed, and then thought. It was Monday night, she’d been deluged with work today and on Sunday and the rest of the week would be a scramble to catch up. It was flattering that Harry had texted her, she wanted to say yes, she’d like to help, but realistically it would be coffees on the train and sandwiches eaten in one hand while typing with the other until at least Friday.

She considered other possibilities. Harry lived in south London too, though in a considerably smarter bit of it. She was just down the hill, in fact: they’d shared a taxi home after that first dramatic meeting. John had more or less refused to speak to either of them, which had been an oddly bonding experience. Molly had been increasingly indignant at him as she talked to Harry on the way back. Harry was a bit scary, and she wasn’t upset at John telling her to piss off, more grimly resigned; but she was also smart and interesting, and she’d been kind to Molly, getting them a cab when Molly gave up and burst into tears on the street outside 221B, finding her some tissues, and then tactfully talking about everyday things while Molly pulled herself together and eventually joined in. If it had been anyone else, Molly would have been horribly embarrassed, but Harry had been nice, she’d been understanding. And she’d seemed really grateful when Molly agreed that they should swap numbers in case either of them needed John-related support.

Feeling bold, she typed, “Work v.busy this week. Can do evenings after 7 if that suited? M x”

“Great. Free Thurs. Or tonight? Otherwise next week? H x”

Molly hesitated. She was tired – she’d gone in to work for 7am that morning – but she was also tempted by the thought of a good meal and a glass of red in any of the four gastropubs close to Harry’s street. But maybe Harry didn’t go to pubs. Molly didn’t really know what recovering alcoholics might or might not want to do, perhaps it would be tactless to suggest it. Probably it would be best to leave it up to Harry.

“Can do tonight. Home now, happy to walk to Herne Hill. Where? M x”

“Brilliant. Royal George? 30 mins? At King’s Cross now, train due. H x”

Good, just where Molly had been thinking of. “See you then,” she sent, and got up to get ready.

Harry was there when she arrived, at a table in the corner studying the menu. She was wearing work clothes, a smart blue striped shirt under a black jacket, and drinking something that looked like fizzy water.

“Hi,” said Molly, sliding onto the chair opposite her, suddenly a little nervous.

“Hey,” said Harry. “Thanks for coming. Have you eaten? I was just going to order.”

“Um, no, no I haven’t. I know what I want though, if you’re ready to order. I practically live here, I mean, I meant to say I come here a lot. With friends.” Molly felt herself blushing. Harry looked a lot older and smarter in her professional outfit, the blue shirt made her eyes stand out, sharp. She should have put on something a bit nicer than the jeans with a large hole in one knee and a hoodie, Molly thought, she felt like a teenager.

Harry grinned at her babbling, though, and Molly couldn’t help but smile back: Harry’s smile was exactly like John’s, incontestably genuine and warm.

“I’ll um, go and order, shall I?” she said. “What are you having? The burgers are really good – though you probably know that, you’re just round the corner from here, aren’t you?”

“I haven’t been in that often,” said Harry. “I heard the burgers were amazing, though. Could you order me the one with mushrooms? And chips, I’m starving. Here.” She took a note out of her wallet and passed it over.

“Thanks. And, er, do you want another…?” Molly gestured at Harry’s drink.

“No, I’m fine, thanks. And you can drink if you want to, by the way, I won’t grab it out of your hands and down it or anything.”

Molly laughed nervously. “I didn’t think – “ she protested.

“Don’t worry, I know what John tells people about me,” said Harry. She made a face, a mock grimace. Molly smiled back and went to the bar.

After that, it seemed easy to chat while they waited for the food to arrive. Harry asked about Molly’s work, and she didn’t seem put off, she seemed genuinely interested, and not the morbid curiosity that Molly was used to, either. Molly asked about Harry’s job, which was something in law, construction law, maybe, but Harry waved a hand and rolled her eyes.

“Mostly I just sit in an office and shout at people over the phone about contracts,” she said. “Though sometimes I get to put on a hard hat and walk round sites, and then go and shout at people.”

The food arrived, and there were a few moments of silence while they swapped sauce and salt and vinegar.

“John thinks my job’s a total waste of time,” said Harry, through a mouthful of burger. “Helping corrupt developers with dodgy deals, and all that.”

“Really?” said Molly, “I think it sounds like hard work.” She took a large gulp of her wine, for courage. “So how is John? You said he wasn’t great?”

“Well,” said Harry. “To be honest, I was the one who wasn’t great. I told him that it had been over six weeks and that he needed to pack up Sherlock’s stuff and move out, or find another flatmate if he wanted to stay.” She ran one hand through her hair, and then stabbed a chip and ate it. “And then I said if he couldn’t find work I’d lend him some money until he did, and he threw his mug at me and told me to fuck off and leave him alone.”

“Wow,” said Molly. “Are you OK? I’ve never seen John lose his temper, even when Sh – even when people were being really annoying.”

“Yeah, well,” said Harry. “Siblings and all that.”

“Maybe it’s a good sign,” said Molly. “He seemed very – very quiet when I was last round. Sort of subdued, you know. Greg – you know Greg, Greg Lestrade, the detective? – he said that too. I mean, at least if he’s throwing things it means he cares about something.”

Harry pushed at the food on her plate for a moment. “He cared about Sherlock,” she said. “Look, I suppose I really wanted to ask you, was there anything going on with them? John never – he didn’t want me to meet Sherlock, so I never even saw them together.  I mean, I know he’s always been completely straight, but I wondered if maybe they were a couple and he just didn’t want to tell me.”

“Oh,” said Molly. She’d been asked this before, of course, but on those occasions, she hadn’t seen Sherlock vibrating with fear and anxiety and grief, and none of it for himself. She thought about it.

“I don’t think they were, umm, having sex or anything. But they were like an old married couple, when you saw them together. You know, they understood each other without talking, that kind of thing.” To her horror, she felt tears welling up. She rubbed her nose and looked at her plate.

“Was Sherlock really that amazing?” said Harry, almost wistfully. “He sounds – I don’t know, it’s hard for me to picture John with another man.”

“He was amazing, kind of,” said Molly. “But he wasn’t a nice person, he could be really rude and horrible, and he never seems – seemed – to notice anyone. John was the only one he liked, and he was rude to him as well. I don’t know.” She wiped her nose with her napkin and blinked hard.

“Shit, sorry,” said Harry. “I’m an idiot, I keep thinking that you’re John’s friend, but I know you were Sherlock’s friend first. God, I’m an arse, I seem to be having a week of it. Come on, Molly, it’s OK.”

Molly looked up. Harry reached out a hand and laid it on hers, warm, for a moment, and then withdrew it.

“Let’s eat our chips and talk about the weather or something, shall we? Forget I brought it up. I can tell you about the mess I’ve made of my life, that’ll make you feel better.”

“Oh, I’m sure your life’s not a mess,” Molly protested. “You’re so –“ she gestured at Harry’s suit, “I mean, you seem really together.”

“I’ve been off the booze now for three months,” said Harry. “Not a drop. But I don’t know, just because I’m sober for now doesn’t mean I’m not a bitter, twisted divorcee.” She smiled ruefully at Molly.

“Lots of people are divorced,” said Molly, stoutly. “And you’re, I mean – “. She stopped. She’d been about to say that Harry was surely attractive enough to pull anyone she wanted, but that was the kind of thing she’d say to one of her other – to one of her straight friends. Maybe she shouldn’t say it to Harry, it might seem a bit, well, flirtatious or something. She took a large bite of burger to cover her confusion. 

 “Thanks,” said Harry. “Did John tell you about me and Clara?”

“Just that you’d been married and got divorced not that long ago, and that it was all a bit messy.”

“Yeah, just a bit,” said Harry. “Clara was one of John’s best friends, you know. She was going out with another friend of his, Ian, and the three of them used to hang out together every day while they were at uni, Clara and John shared a flat in their second-year and everything. And then a crowd of John’s friends rented a house in the country for a couple of weeks, and I went along too, and I met Clara there. And well, I suppose I stole her. I don’t think John ever really forgave me.”

“Wow,” said Molly again. She could imagine Harry stealing someone. She had that air that John had too, a sort of hidden confidence that if she really put her mind to it, she could have anyone she liked.

“So then Clara and me were together, and it was great, and then it was awful and we broke up, and then we got back together and it was great again. And then we got married, and then I cheated on her and she forgave me, and then I thought drinking would help with everything, and she couldn’t forgive me for that. So she left me for good.” 

“That’s,” said Molly. “That’s really sad. I mean, I’m sorry.”

Harry shrugged. “It’s OK.” She blew out a breath and looked at Molly. “How about you, then? Single, married, divorced, none of the above?”

“Oh, single,” said Molly. Perhaps because she felt that she was so dull compared to Harry, she added, “I dated Jim Moriarty for a bit.”

Harry spluttered into her drink. “The Jim Moriarty? You and he – really? John never said.”

“I dumped him,” said Molly. She liked the way she sounded, airy and casual.

“Seriously?”

“Mmm. He was crap in bed, too, “ said Molly. She had a moment of astonishment at herself, but across the table Harry was cracking up, giggling uncontrollably. Molly started giggling too, out of sympathy.

“Molly Hooper,” said Harry. “You’re full of surprises.”

 Molly, pleased, grinned back.


End file.
